Page 31 of When Forever Falls Apart

It’s a challenge to maintain my composure with such narrow-mindedness. Perhaps I should have opted for online shopping to avoid this conversation altogether. But no, I’m a sucker for feeling a physical book in my hands, and for the scent that lingers in a bookstore. It’s something about the paper, I’m sure of it.

“I think I’ll browse the back section for a bit,” I announce, making my exit from the uncomfortable interaction. The romance shelf is modestly sized, and I notice that I’ve already devoured half of it. I considered myself a binge reader, withmy Goodreads reading goal set at one hundred books this year. Since we’re halfway through the year, my total of sixty-seven so far is quite impressive, if I do say so myself.

As I scan the titles, one cover catches my eye—a story about a single dad searching for a nanny who, intriguingly, happens to be his student. My curiosity is piqued as I stumble on the page where he says, “Get on your knees, you’re in detention.”

I press my thighs together, then grab the book along with two others from a series I’ve been eager to continue. I return to the counter to finalize my purchase.

Mrs. Winthrop rings up my order in strained silence. Her behavior is grating, and I can’t help but imagine a bookstore that embraces all forms of romance—a sanctuary free from judgment. This disapproving behavior is growing old, as is Mrs. Winthrop. Surely, she’s due to retire soon.

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” she says, her expression cold.

I plaster on a fake smile to hide my annoyance. “You too.”

As I exit the store, I mutter incoherently to release my pent-up frustration. One day, a rival bookstore will open in Cinnamon Springs. When that day arrives, I’ll be the first in line, ready to prove that Mrs. Winthrop does not dictate the literary taste of the town’s readers. I’m pretty sure the only reason she has a romance section is because of her older daughter, Edith, who is all about women’s rights. I’m also pretty sure Edith likes women, and Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop are living in denial.

As the clock edges toward five, I realize I have little time to return home, change, and get to Elliot’s for dinner. Then it dawns on me—we never set a specific time.

I whip out my phone, fingers flying over the keypad to pull up the number Eva shared with me just before my return to town. I type his name, save his number, and hitsendon a text.

Me

What time is our non-date?

I embark on the five-minute journey back to the apartment. By the time I pull into the parking spot, I have even less time to get ready. I can’t remember when I washed my hair, and that will set me back another thirty minutes since I have to blow-dry it afterward. I gather my things with hurried movements, securing my still-filled water bottle under my arm and a muffin I had impulsively bought earlier.

Elliot

7 and don’t be late. You eat snails, right?

Laughter barrels out of me until I notice the red bar at the top of my screen.Shit!There’s only 2 percent battery left, so I rush to plug in my charger and decide to respond later.

With the water running inside the shower, I quickly choose an outfit. I want to look good, but nottake me to bedgood.

Not that I’m thinking about sleeping with Elliot.

Though he is hot.

Okay, you’re spiraling.

I consider my nautical outfit again, but then settle on a blue floral mini dress with short puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline.

After a quick shower, I dry my hair and then start curling it, only to change my mind because curls will be too much. I tie it up into a sleek ponytail, then apply a small amount of blush and lipstick, so I’m not late.

As I reach the door, I rummage through my bag for my phone, only for the door to swing open unexpectedly.

“Oh my God! You scared the hell out of me,” I gasp at Eva, clutching my chest, only to drop my purse onto the ground.

I crouch down to collect the scattered items from my purse, which include my tampons, only to realize Eva is stillstanding there like a shadow. Her usually well-kept brown hair is thrown messily into a bun, no traces of makeup on her face, and her eyes look puffy, as if she’s been crying. She’s in a pair of burgundy tights and a black oversized tee, plus she has Crocs on her feet.

Dear God, the Crocs must mean a crisis is upon us.

“Is everything okay?” I notice my brother, Aston, is absent. The two have been annoyingly inseparable of late, so her solitary presence raises alarm bells in my mind. “No Aston?”

“Just me,” she murmurs, turning away from me and retreating further into the comforting embrace of her apartment.

Leaving my belongings on the counter and plugging in my phone, I follow, then sit beside her on the worn sofa that has been a refuge for me many times before. Her cozy apartment has always felt like home, yet now a thick tension hangs in the air, unspoken and heavy. I wait, knowing that at any moment, she has to say something.

“I’m pregnant,” Eva blurts out, the word landing with the weight of a meteorite.